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of Which tells me that Whatever sickness my body tried to barf out back at the diner hasn’t quite left me yet.
    But I’m not Worried. Being the glass-half-full kind of guy that I am, I know that I’m not in any serious danger. After all, even if I Were to collapse face-first in the intersection (I’m presently staggering across Sixteenth and Seventh), St. Vincent’s Hospital is only four blocks away—hey, that reminds me! Mark’s dad just got a job there … he’s the new hospital administrator of … What? Something! Doesn’t matter! I bet if I go right now, he can make sure that I see a doctor ASAP!
    “Ay-sap!”

Crimes Against Humanity
    Six minutes later I’m standing in front of a bulletproof Window, desperately trying to convince a four-hundred-pound, rayon-clad security guard that I’m not insane.
    “I’m telling you, he Works here,” I repeat as patiently as I can. “Mr. Joshua Singer. He’s my best friend’s father. He’s an administrator.”
    The security guard glares at me from deep Within the folds of his pasty face. His skin is the color of a fast-food egg breakfast.
    “I’m telling you, kid,” he growls. “We have no record of a Joshua Singer at this hospital. Not as an administrator, not as a doctor, not as a nurse, not as an intern. Not even as a patient. Understand? Now if you Want to see a doctor, go to the emergency room and Wait With everybody else—”
    “But I—”
    “Next?” he shouts.
    I slither away from the line that’s beginning to form behind me. Unlike Seventh Avenue, the traffic in this hospital is stuck in a serious jam—and the sunlight is no longer tourism-commercial perfect. No, the Way it’s streaming through the floor-to-ceiling Windows somehow makes the hustle and bustle that much more confusing. The longer I stand there, the more everything is thrown into jumbled disarray: the institutional tile, the sad-sack visitors, the doctors With their clipboards … all of it grotesquely lit by this horrible, slanted, dizzying glare… .
    I have to get out of here before I get sick again.
    The glass is no longer half full. Not even close. It’s not even half empty. It’s dishwasher clean. I stagger back toward the exit. Odd: my head feels as if it’s revolving like a radar dish on an ocean liner, like one of those Whirligig towers that pirouette relentlessly, around and around, spinning and spinning and—
    “Can I help you?”
    I look up. I realize I’ve been doubled over. I’m also clutching my ears in a vain effort to drown out the peculiar Wailing screech that nobody else seems to hear. But now I’m saved. Saved! Because the young Woman Who asked this extraordinarily considerate question—this beautiful doctor (she has to be a doctor; she’s Wearing green hospital scrubs), this gorgeous nerd With the thick glasses and ponytail—she Wants to help me!
    “Yes, please, thank you,” I gasp.
    “What’s the matter? Is it your ears?”
    “No. I mean, yes, but not totally. My ears are only part of it. I feel really dizzy. There’s a pain in my side. I just threw up. And I hear this Weird ringing—Wait a second. Actually, you know What? It’s starting to die down a little. But it Was really loud there for a bit.”
    She gives me a quick once-over. Her eyebrows are tightly knit behind the Coke bottle lenses. She sniffs loudly.
    “What is it?” I ask.
    Without a Word, she takes my elbow and escorts me to a more private spot at the end of the hall. We pause next to a big, fake palm tree.
    “Have you been drinking?” she Whispers.
    I frown. “Excuse me?”
    “I have to ask,” she says.
    “No!” I bark.
    She flashes an apologetic grin. “Okay, okay, I believe you. Let me ask you something else: Have you eaten anything unusual recently?”
    I hesitate for a moment. “Just some fries. But I eat fries every day of the Week, pretty much.”
    “Oh, I see.” She laughs. “Very healthy.”
    Maybe she’s trying to be overly friendly now to compensate for